In my previous post I mentioned that I was going to have a go at fiction – in fact I’ve been banging on about it for ages – and now, dear reader, I’ve done it. One of my lifetime’s ambitions is coming to fruition: I’m writing a novel. It’s quite probably arrant rubbish. As a fictional virgin (if you see what I mean) I feel I have no way of knowing. But it’s so much fun. I started a couple of weeks ago with the intention of writing a few pages now and then, just to keep the wheels turning until I need to prepare the illegitimacy book for the copy-editor. I’ve done a word-count this morning: 16,000. Four chapters.
The most difficult part of the whole process, I find, is keeping track of time. As a historian, I am well used to doing that; real-life chronology lends an unassailable structure. As a novelist (if only!) the chronology is in my own head, where times and dates have a habit of suddenly changing when I’m not looking. Numbers have always swum around my mind like fish; maybe that’s why my characters can’t seem to remember what day it is. Consistency is a real challenge. I can cross-check things quite easily now, while the book is relatively short; how shall I do it when I’m halfway through or nearly done? I’m such a novice.
The problem would not arise, I suppose, had I planned out all the action in advance. The fear of accomplishing this is partly what stopped me attempting a novel before: how could I conceive of the finished object before I had written a word – yet how could I begin without knowing what was going to happen, and how it was going to end? This has been the greatest revelation of all: that in writing fiction, you don’t need to know what happens. Stuff doesn’t happen; it evolves. And it can only evolve if you start writing. So if you, like me, feel you lack the courage to try, give it a go. Don’t have high expectations; try not to judge yourself; just do it.